


Seldom Appear

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [28]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cleaning, Gen, Insecurity, Non-Sexual Age Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: The Soldier doesn't know how to talk to people.Fulfilling missions is much easier.





	

**Brownies make their homes in unused parts of houses and seldom appear to, or speak with, humans.**

— _Llewellyn’s 2013 Magical Almanac: Practical Magic for Everyday Living_ , Llewellyn Publications

  


The Soldier is allowed to use the can opener.

That isn’t because the can opener is inherently safer than a knife. The Soldier was trained to use anything as a weapon. He could shove a measuring spoon through an eye socket to blind an assailant if necessary. And in the streets of Brooklyn, a lifetime ago, he’d throw handfuls of gravel and other debris littering alleys, or knock over trash cans to buy himself and Steve a few seconds of lead time. The can opener could be as deadly as a gun if the Soldier willed it.

But he never used a can opener when HYDRA had him. Kitchen knives, sometimes, or blades from the targets’ tool sheds, but not can openers. That’s why his therapists have approved the can opener but not any knives. There’s no risk of dragging up bad memories or bad orders, not like the night when the Soldier got confused and almost stabbed Steve with the blades he’d hidden in his nightstand.

The Soldier shakes his head, setting the can opener down. There aren’t knives hidden in his bedroom anymore. There aren’t weapons hidden anywhere. He doesn’t need them and if he starts to feel like he does, he can call his doctors and they’ll come to see him, no matter what time it is. He made a mistake, but he knows better now and he hadn’t hurt Steve. Miriam says there’s a difference between talking through a bad thing and dwelling on it; she says one helps and the other doesn’t. The Soldier has talked about it. He doesn’t need to dwell.

So instead, he slips his metal fingers under the lid of the can and pushes it back, then dumps the black beans into a strainer to rinse. He’s making tortilla soup because it doesn’t require any knives, just a jar of minced garlic and forks to shred the chicken breast. He’s making the soup alone because the Avengers have a mission and Pepper had an emergency meeting, and also because making meals earns the Soldier an extra blue star on his chart. There are many blue stars on the chart this week because the Avengers have been gone for days. But they’ll be back soon. Sam said so when he called a few hours ago. That was when the Soldier had started the soup.

The Soldier lingers at the sink, shaking the strainer a few times to make sure that all there’s no water left inside before he dumps the beans in the simmering pot. He stirs the soup three times, watching the beans mix with the rest of the ingredients. A stray jalapeño seed floats to the surface and the Soldier fishes it out. There almost weren’t any jalapeños in the soup because the Soldier couldn’t slice them, but JARVIS had informed him of a can of jalapeño slices in the pantry. They were pickled, but the Soldier doesn’t think that should affect the taste too greatly.

And anyway, he likes jalapeños. He likes the warmth they add to everything he puts them in.

 **SERGEANT BARNES,** JARVIS says. The Soldier likes talking to JARVIS because JARVIS has no body, so the Soldier does not have to meet his eyes. It’s hard to meet Steve’s eyes sometimes, and the Worths’. There had been handlers that hadn’t liked that in the past, and the Soldier’s body cannot be like Bucky Bear’s, always still and unblinking.

“Yes?”

 **THE AVENGERS HAVE RETURNED.** JARVIS pulls up the holo-screen without the Soldier asking. He’s done that for every mission since the time when Dr. Banner had come back still in the form of the Hulk, and Bucky had gone to see what was taking so long. The video is meant to reassure him that everyone’s all right, and he doesn’t need to rush over to investigate.

The Soldier doesn’t want to investigate. He can see that everyone emerging from the Quinjet looks tired but unharmed. He just wants to let them know that there’s soup. They’re likely hungry as well as fatigued, and soup is good after missions. The Soldier thinks that he used to have it sometimes early on in Russia.

Steve has his shield slung across his back. There’s something smeared across the bridge of his nose that’s likely dirt. The Soldier can’t imagine that Steve would come home bloodied up without bothering to wash his face.

He came home that way sometimes in Brooklyn, usually because Bucky made him. Then he’d wince in the bathroom as he daubed at his cuts with iodine, while Bucky would roll his eyes and ask what he’d expected.

The Soldier can’t imagine asking that now. He can imagine everyone having soup, so he sets the stove to low and prepares to make his way to the hangar.

When he glances back at the screen, Natasha is coming out of the jet.

She’s wearing black, like always. Like she wore when the Soldier shot her outside of Odessa.

It isn’t like when he held the knife and looked at Steve. There’s no rush of adrenaline in his stomach, no blood roaring in his ears. The Soldier doesn’t feel sweat at his brow, doesn’t have to remind himself that Natasha’s no longer his mission. She’s a friend.

Bucky’s friend.

When he feels like the man he was before HYDRA, Natasha is there. When he feels small, Tasha will play bears or color or watch movies. But there isn’t a Black Widow for the Winter Soldier. Natasha is past that, and she won’t want to eat with the person who tried to kill her twice. Who punched her in what should have been her safe space.

“JARVIS,” the Soldier says. “Could...could you let them know there’s soup?”

He’ll have his own bowl later, once they’re through.

*

“Hey, Buck.”

Though the bedroom door is open, Steve stays just outside of it. He’s carrying a tray with two bowls and a smoothie. Bucky can guess what’s in the bowls. “Hey.”

“I thought you might be hungry.” Steve steps inside, making his way toward the bed. “Are you feeling okay? I figured you’d want to eat with us.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not sick. I just...” He picks up Bucky Bear, unsure of how to say it. “I guess I wasn’t feeling social.”

Steve nods like that’s not weird. Maybe it isn’t weird. Bucky’s spent the better part of a week with just Pepper, Lucky, and his bears for company, so maybe it’s normal to need space when a big group arrives. To feel anxious at the thought of interacting with his friends. The Worths always tell him to it’s okay to take steps to reduce the stress he’s feeling.

But they’ve never told him it’s okay to feel like nobody likes a part of himself. So it’s probably not normal.

Steve sets the tray between them and picks up a spoon. “I think everyone’s taking some time to regroup,” he says. “Maybe we can do a movie night tomorrow or the day after?”

This time Bucky nods, trying his own spoonful. It tastes as good as it had smelled in the kitchen. A few minutes pass in silence; Steve has already heard how Bucky’s been spending his time thanks to daily check-in calls, and Bucky tries not to ask for many details about the missions. The more he knew, the more time he’d spend stressing himself over everyone else’s reckless idiocy.

“Steve?” Bucky asks without planning to speak.

“Yeah, Buck?”

His voice comes out quiet and little, even though just a second ago he’d felt completely grown-up. “Do...do you love me, Daddy?”

“Of course I do,” Daddy says. His forehead creases, and Bucky’s stomach sinks. He didn’t mean to make Daddy worried, especially not when he’s already tired. “Bucky, I don’t go on missions because I don’t want to be here. It’s just to keep everyone safe. You know that, right?”

Bucky does know, even if he needs to be reminded sometimes. “All of me?” he asks.

Daddy reaches out and takes Bucky’s metal hand, entwining their fingers. He lifts Bucky’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Every part of you,” he says firmly. “And there’s nothing you could ever do to change that, Buck.” He puts his other hand out and gives Bucky Bear’s paw a squeeze, just to make his point. “You don’t need to worry.”

And he doesn’t, not about this. Daddy will love him where he’s five or thirty or the Soldier.

It’s just everybody else that the Soldier’s not sure about.

*

The Soldier doesn’t mean to hide.

It’s just that, on the second night everyone was gone, he’d taken one of Dr. Banner’s sweaters. The therapists say that Bucky isn’t stealing when he does that, both because he always returns the clothing and because everyone knows. The first time that Bucky had fallen asleep cuddled up in Steve’s laundry, Pepper had taken photos and sent them to everyone. They’d thought it was cute, and after that, everyone’s clothes had been up for the taking.

But Dr. Banner is back now and Bucky doesn’t need the sweater anymore. So once it comes out of the dryer with the rest of his weekly laundry, the Soldier folds it neatly and carries it, still warm, up to Dr. Banner’s room. There is more of the doctor’s laundry sitting at the foot of the bed; the call to assemble must have happened before he could put it away. So the Soldier places those items in their proper drawers as well.

He can’t resist burying his face against the fabric of the sweater one last time. It’s so soft and, even washed, carries the scent of tea and old books.

That’s when the elevator opens.

The Soldier can’t say why his first instinct is to shove the sweater into its correct drawer and then dive into Dr. Banner’s closet. But that’s where he ends up, watching through the crack between the doors as the doctor walks through the room. He can’t reveal his presence without seeming like a threat or an idiot, so he stays put, holding his breath.

Dr. Banner pauses at the space on the bed where his laundry used to be, making a faint “hmm” sound in his throat. Then he moves on, retrieving a few books from the shelf on the far end of the room. He leaves as quickly as he’d arrived, although on the way out, he seems to be smiling.

After that, it just seems logical to continue.

The Soldier functions best with a mission. Both Steve and the Worths agree about that, which is why they had instituted the star chart to begin with. Most every task on the chart is comprised of one chore or another, and the Soldier has found that he enjoys those missions. They’re harmless and productive and make him feel as if he contributes something to his living space.

The tasks are just as enjoyable whether it’s his floor or someone else’s that he’s mopping. The sense of accomplishment doesn’t diminish just because he hasn’t slept in the beds he makes. And everyone else had accepted him, sheltered and cared for him even in the days before he’d known how to act like a person at all. Why shouldn’t he repay them?

So Wilson’s running shoes wind up stuffed with newspaper after rainy days. Lucky’s paw prints are scrubbed from Barton’s floors. If Pepper falls asleep with her work spread out before her, she wakes to find it neatly stacked, and her head is resting on a pillow. When Tasha leaves toys strewn on the playroom carpet, they’ll always be back in the toy box before anyone next comes in.

The Soldier works in silence, slipping into rooms while their occupants are gone. It’s easier than explaining himself. Safer than asking and maybe seeing fear or dislike on their faces when they realize whom they’re speaking to. Everyone seems happy and no one acknowledges the Soldier’s efforts.

At least, not at first.

*

“You’ve been cleaning in secret?” Miriam asks.

The Soldier flushes. He does not let himself shift in his chair. Bucky Bear is watching and he’d never be able to live with the indignity of the bear’s judgment. “I haven’t forced my way into anyone’s room,” he begins. That seems important. “If JARVIS says a floor is closed off, I will make no attempt to circumvent that. And I haven’t touched anything set as off limits, I haven’t cleaned the lab because I know that Tony has some sort of system that doesn’t make sense and if I changed that he’d be upset, so I’ve only cleaned in the penthouse for him and even then I’ve made sure not to—”

“We don’t think you’re breaking into anyone’s rooms, James.” Cornelius has his hands slightly raised, a signal that the Soldier is talking too fast and tripping over his words.

The Soldier takes a breath, steadying himself as he listens.

“We understand that you respect privacy,” Cornelius continues. “And there’s nothing wrong with doing something nice for your friends provided that they’re all right with it. From what you’ve described, no one seems troubled by your interventions.”

“I’m just confused as to why you’ve kept it a secret,” Miriam says. Her tone and face are the same as when she speaks to him as a child, but it doesn’t make the Soldier feel small. It’s grounding, familiar. “Why not tell them that you like to clean?”

The urge to fidget is immense. The Soldier settles for sitting on his hands instead, gaze downcast. “It’s easier.”

“Can you elaborate on that?” Cornelius leans forward slightly. There’s a notepad beside him, but he’s not writing anything down. Neither of the doctors tends to write around the Soldier because it sets him on edge. Knowing they aren’t recording his failings doesn’t stop him from feeling like they are. “Are you afraid that they’ll say no if you ask?”

The Soldier shakes his head. They’d probably prefer the Soldier to clean than to talk to them. “I could ask Steve.” The words are slow; he’s still searching for the right way to arrange them. “I can speak to Steve. I know he wants me here. Even as the Soldier. The others won’t want a Winter Soldier around.”

“You used to feel that way about your little side,” Miriam points out. “Remember? We talked about your fears that your friends felt obligated to play with you.”

A shrug. Sometimes it still feels that way if he’s in a particularly worried or unhappy mood. But even if those feelings were gone completely, the situations aren’t comparable. “I never hurt anyone when I was small. The Winter Soldier is different. I broke Sam’s wings. I shot Natasha twice. And Tony’s parents...” He shakes his head. How could any of them want to even look at him after that?

“But you also fought Steve. You shot him.” Cornelius doesn’t say it as an accusation, but the Soldier casts his eyes to the floor anyway. “You’re still certain that his companionship is unconditional.”

“He was my best friend before HYDRA.” The Soldier can’t say that for any of the others.

“When you feel little, do you forget how to fight?” Miriam asks.

She knows he doesn’t. That’s why the rules about weapons aren’t dependent on his mindset. “No?” It’s a question more than an answer; the Soldier’s unsure of the point she’s trying to make. “Children aren’t meant to fight.”

“But you remember how. And now that you can remember some things from before the war, do you lose those memories when you feel like the Soldier?”

“No.” Sometimes when he panics, as he had on the night with the knife, it’s hard to think of those memories clearly. But they’re never gone. No one will take them ever again.

“And you keep Bucky Bear around no matter how old you feel,” Miriam concludes.

“He’s a highly trained operative.”

“What we’re trying to say, James, is that you aren’t separate people,” Cornelius explains. “You don’t go away when you don’t feel like the Soldier and wake up the next time you’re needed.”

“Your behavior just varies depending on what feels the most comfortable or safe at the time,” Miriam adds.

The Soldier nods. He’s not like the half-remembered story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from his youth. He’s no different than Pepper acting one way in front of the board and another when they’re making cookies, or Crystal being grown-up at work and little at the Toy Box, not really. But knowing that he’s Bucky doesn’t mean everybody else knows it. And what if they realize and decide they don’t really like Bucky at all?

“I don’t know how to talk to them.” The Soldier makes himself straighten up, meeting the doctors’ eyes. “Not when I feel like the Soldier. Nobody ever wanted the Soldier to talk.”

“But you’ve interacted with them before, haven’t you?” Cornelius asks. “Captain Rogers took all of you to a paintball range, and there was the time that—”

“That was like a mission.” The Soldier hadn’t spoken much at all during the game, other than occasionally directing his time or stopping someone from walking into an ambush. “Games have rules. Objectives. Conversations don’t.”

“We can practice,” Miriam offers. “If you’d like, we can devote part of each session to practicing, for as long as you want to work on it.”

The Soldier considers it, squeezing Bucky Bear’s foot. “But I can still clean before I start speaking to anyone?”

“If that’s what you want.”

*

The Soldier assumes the first bag of candy is a coincidence.

He is organizing Barton’s arrows by the small labels on the shafts, and at the bottom of the quiver is a bag of gummy bears. Perhaps Barton takes them into the field to provide energy should his blood sugar drop during a mission. Or perhaps Barton was attempting to hide the candy from Lucky and forgot where he’d left it. The Soldier finds the latter option more likely and leaves the bag on top of Barton’s dresser, out of Lucky’s reach. Barton will be able to see it there and decide what he wants to do with the candy.

But when Steve carries Bucky into his room that night to pick out a bedtime story, the gummy bears are lying on the bed between Hawkbear and Bear Widow. Bucky figures that Clint probably got the candy as a present once and then forgot about it, and seeing it reminded him. He probably got Tasha some gummy bears too.

Except the next time the Soldier puts away Barton’s laundry, there’s another bag of gummy bears in the sock drawer.

After that, the Soldier can’t stop finding things.

There are sample jars of specialty honeys and soft, brightly colored mens’ socks all over Pepper’s closet when he organizes it. There are freshly baked cookies wrapped in plastic on top of Dr. Banner’s cluttered desk. Natasha’s locker in the shared gym contains a wrapped package which ends up holding a slim volume of Russian poetry. And when the Soldier shines Tony’s shoes, he finds five pairs with new Iron Bear gadgets inside of them.

Steve sees these items carefully stacked on the corner of Bucky’s desk, unused, in case the Soldier is mistaken and they are not intended for him. He doesn’t shake his head or ask the Soldier to return anything. He only smiles and moves on, and that makes the Soldier smile as well.

*

Two weeks after the gifts have begun appearing, the Soldier is scrubbing the grout in Natasha’s shower when Natasha opens the door.

The Soldier drops his sponge. He had not heard the elevator. Perhaps Natasha hadn’t used it, and had been waiting, hiding, somewhere on her floor the entire time. Now she’ll tell the Soldier to leave. Order him never to come near her spaces again, not as a Soldier. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, right as Natasha says, “I’m not angry.”

The Soldier only stares.

Natasha sighs, leaning against the corner of the sink without really sitting on the countertop. “How many times do we have to go over this?” she asks. “If I didn’t want to be around you, there wouldn’t be a whole playroom just for us. And I wouldn’t have the bunk beds either.”

“I hit you,” the Soldier says. That’s not right. He should have said that he was sorry for hitting her. There was no excuse; he wasn’t HYDRA’s any longer when it happened. He was a threat on his own.

“And we’ve talked about it. As I recall, we wrote out a whole set of safety guidelines afterward.”

The Soldier winces. One of those rules was about lying by omission. The Soldier’s very existence likely fails under that.

“You think I never lashed out after Clint took me in?” Natasha asks. “Have you forgotten the time I threw a pillow at your head for asking if I was okay? If I couldn’t handle the parts of you HYDRA made, I’d never have opened up about the Red Room when I was sick. And I definitely wouldn’t be giving you Russian poetry.”

“It was good poetry,” the Soldier mutters. He doesn’t say that he couldn’t remember a lot of the Russian anymore, that JARVIS had to translate.

“Like I’d have bad taste in poetry,” Natasha says. “Are we good now? Or are there any other burning insecurities we need to get out of the way so we can actually communicate?” 

Face reddening, the Soldier stoops to pick up the sponge. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”

“You didn’t know how to talk to anyone when you first got here.” She straightens up, brushing her hair back from her shoulders. “You got past that. We can work it out. And we don’t always have to talk to spend time together.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “It’s uneven.”

“What do you mean?”

“You...” The Soldier flaps his wrists, unsure of what to say. It’s a mistake, and the sponge leaves splatters of soapy water on his clothes. “You’ve been through all of this. You’re...whole. When Steve couldn’t bear to look at me, you were the first to reach out. I can’t do those things. I have nothing to offer you but bears and games and I’m no good at those when I feel this way. I’m not good enough.”

He forces himself to meet Natasha’s gaze. Her face is hard, mouth set. Maybe she agrees. Maybe she’s trying to work out how to ask him to leave without sounding cruel.

“Friendship isn’t about good enough,” Natasha says. She reaches out, knocking the sponge from the Soldier’s hand and squeezing his fingers. She doesn’t seem to mind that the metal is cold and damp. “And even if I cared about that, you got away from HYDRA on your own. Steve might have reminded you of the past, but you still could have gone back to the familiar when you left him on the shore. I don’t know if I could have left the Red Room without Clint by my side. And you’re the one who gave me the courage to be little. Vulnerable. You make me happy, Bucky. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?”

The Soldier doesn’t know how to quantify happiness. He doesn’t know how to respond. “I don’t like to be vulnerable,” he says. He shouldn’t have encouraged that, should he?

“But everyone is,” Natasha says. “There’s no weakness that could make me think less of you. I don’t care about the things that HYDRA made you do. I don’t care that you take medications or wet the bed or any of that.”

Face burning, the Soldier ducks his head down, which turns out to be a mistake because Natasha tries to pull him into a hug as he does it, so he ends up colliding his chin against her shoulder and biting his lip.

“That’s what friends do.” Natasha’s voice is firm. “They lift each other up when they’re feeling small or exposed. It’s not about being strong. And even if that mattered, you _are_ strong. All that you’ve been through? You’re strong. _We’re_ strong. And anyone who makes you feel unworthy can go to hell.”

The Soldier expects the hug to end, but Natasha only holds on tighter. He wonders if he ought to hug back.

“You know you don’t have to earn my friendship, right?” Natasha asks. “You don’t need to buy anyone’s companionship with stealth chores, Bucky.”

“I like cleaning.”

Although he can’t see her face, the Soldier can somehow hear Natasha’s smile. “Well in that case,” she says, starting to pull away, “I have some other stuff you could handle—”

She doesn’t show him that stuff, though, because the Soldier is too busy hugging her.

**Author's Note:**

> Brownies are fairies that are said to do chores or provide services to those whose homes they reside in. They will accept subtle gifts for their services but they don't like attention to be drawn to themselves, so if the gifts are too obvious, it will drive the brownies away. The story of [_The Elves and the Shoemaker_](http://www.authorama.com/grimms-fairy-tales-39.html) displays these kinds of fairies: once they receive the gifts, the fairies never return.
> 
> [This](http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/chicken-tortilla-soup/) is more or less the recipe that Bucky used to make soup.
> 
> Check out these awesome APSHDS-inspired fics:
> 
> [ _GII.4_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8087227/chapters/18531793) by [OMOWatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OMOWatcher/pseuds/OMOWatcher)  
> [ _for maybe in another world ___](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8165963/chapters/18712091)by[WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI) and [Mr_Phich](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Phich/pseuds/Mr_Phich)
> 
> Come say hello on my [Tumblr!](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com)


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